Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I Read online

  Praise for Sandra Byrd

  Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I

  “In Roses Have Thorns, Sandra Byrd has given the reader another amazing heroine to tell the intimate story of England’s greatest queen, Elizabeth I. What a unique point of view and deeply moving story Helena von Snakenborg provides. Byrd is especially adept at blending political and private lives. This is a timeless women’s friendship novel as well as a poignant love story to cherish—both the roses and the thorns.”

  —Karen Harper, New York Times bestselling author of Mistress of Mourning

  “There is something golden about this tale of Elin, an eager young woman in a strange land, diligent in her duty but alive to love. A tale gracefully told, even as it renders the terrors of treachery that form the crucible of Elin’s hard-won wisdom. A heartfelt story of loyalty, longing, lifelong friendship, and the many seasons of the heart.”

  —Barbara Kyle, author of The Queen’s Gamble and Blood Between Queens

  “Beautiful prose and masterful research combine to bring this fascinating tale to life, treating the reader to fully realized characters and providing an original window in which we can view Elizabeth’s court. Ms. Byrd’s work will stand as an unforgettable contribution to Tudor fiction.”

  —D.L. Bogdan, author of The Forgotten Queen

  The Secret Keeper: A Novel of Kateryn Parr

  “Rich in historical detail, full of intrigue, and starring a memorable heroine who grows in both character and faith, Sandra Byrd’s The Secret Keeper kept me completely engrossed in the tumultuous court of Henry VIII. I felt a part of the times, thanks to the author’s skillful storytelling, vivid descriptions, and inspiring characters. Readers are in for a special treat with this remarkable novel.”

  —Francine Rivers, New York Times bestselling author

  “I love this story. Exquisite attention to detail of time, language, and place. A deft creation of voice that invites the reader in and never lets her go. A delicate suspense that keeps pages turning. And throughout, the evidence of a remarkable storyteller who moves emotions in ways that both inspire and satisfy. I fell in love with Juliana St. John and with her heart, and hope she and her secrets find the widest possible audience.”

  —Jane Kirkpatrick, New York Times bestselling author of Where Lilacs Still Bloom

  “A young woman with the gift of prophecy becomes entangled in Henry VIII’s court in this engaging novel. . . . Byrd (To Die For) crafts a well-researched historical novel that engrosses readers in Juliana’s world and the juicy details of the Tudor court. . . . Anglophiles and history buffs alike will surely enjoy this bird’s-eye view into royal politics, love, and scandal.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Juliana’s character as the main protagonist is both surprisingly fresh and perfectly presented. There is much more to her than a lady’s maid, and finding out her secrets as the story unfolds is a great pleasure. Unlike many novels of this kind—which portray a fictional character in the lead—this one works very well. A female’s place in society is expanded upon, but not so much as to become monotonous and spoil the historical theme.”

  —Historical Novel Society

  “I’d be willing to wager that, come December, The Secret Keeper will find a firm ranking on many bloggers’ Best Books of 2012 lists—including mine. The Secret Keeper is simply superb. It grabbed me from the start and never let go. . . . Even readers who shy away from the well-researched historical will get wrapped up in the Tudor trickery and lovely romance within this story. Byrd’s tightly woven plot is laced with ever-splicing threads of intrigue that worm their way into your imagination and all but tie the book to your hands. Read it!”

  —USA Today

  To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

  “This stunning novel . . . re-examines Boleyn’s life from her beginnings to her rise and eventual fall in the Tudor court. . . . Byrd’s novel adds a depth to the character of Anne Boleyn that is often missing in other novels, and she brings the history to life in exquisite detail. Highly recommended for fans of Philippa Gregory.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “In To Die For, Sandra Byrd gifts the reader with a fresh look at Anne Boleyn through the eyes of her lifelong friend Meg Wyatt. . . . Readers will be drawn to the events, beautifully depicted, but also to the emotions, skillfully conveyed. A new Tudor historical to treasure.”

  —Karen Harper, author of The Queen’s Governess

  “Sandra Byrd’s first venture into historical fiction is nothing short of brilliant, giving readers a wider glimpse of history, a greater measure of hope, and an ending that satisfies at the deepest level. Simply put, To Die For is the best historical novel I’ve read in many a season.”

  —Liz Curtis Higgs, New York Times bestselling author of Mine Is the Night

  “Ms. Byrd seamlessly weaves sacred threads of history with those of captivating imagination to take us on an unforgettable journey of the heart.”

  —Tamera Alexander, bestselling author of Within My Heart and The Inheritance

  “In this moving story of a friendship that survives a queen’s rise and fall, Sandra Byrd reaches beyond the familiar stereotypes to give us the story of two remarkable women: A refreshingly three-dimensional Anne (Boleyn) and a Meg (Wyatt) of courage and integrity make this novel a must for your Tudor library.”

  —Susan Higginbotham, author of The Queen of Last Hopes

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  CONTENTS

  Epigraph

  Henry VIII and Dudley Family Trees

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  Parr and Gorges Family Trees

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Reading Group Guide

  About Sandra Byrd

  Principal Works of Reference

  Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,

  Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,

  And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

  —“Sonnet 35,” William Shakespeare

  PROLOGUE

  There once was a strong, benevolent lady who was walking through a frozen rose garden in the grievous chill of winter when her slipper brushed against something on the cobbled path. She saw that it was a snake, stiff with cold and nigh on dead, having run the fool’s errand of leaving its own nest to seize a better one.

  Forswearing her initial hesitation, the lady placed the serpent close to her bosom, where it quickly warmed. When it revived, the serpent resumed its natural nature, bit its benefactress, and poisoned her with a wound unto death.

  “Why have you done
this?” she cried. “I have sought only to assist you!”

  “You knew full well what I was when you drew me close to your heart,” replied the cunning viper.

  “I am justly rewarded, then,” the lady sorrowed, “for pitying a serpent.”

  —A retelling of Aesop’s fable

  ONE

  November: Year of Our Lord 1564

  Tre Kronor, Stockholm, Sweden

  Winter, Spring, and Summer: Year of Our Lord 1565

  At Sea and Over Land

  I may have been a maiden just shy of seventeen years of age, but I was no simpleton. I recognized beard burn on the fair face of my sister when she emerged, breathless, from a small closet off one of the king’s galleries.

  “Have you been with someone?” I asked. By someone, she knew I meant a man.

  She would not meet my gaze. But she answered, “Don’t be foolish, Elin.” She looked at my gown, plain cotton. “You’d best be preparing for the evening. The king is not likely to be pleased if we are not present when he commands the festivities to begin.” At that, she turned, held high her head, and proceeded down the long wooden hallway toward our mother’s palace apartment.

  My stomach grew unsettled, as it always did when I was fed an untruth and forced by custom to compliantly digest it. Karin was right, though, that King Erik would not look kindly upon a late arrival. Everyone at court sought to keep the king placid and happy; he was a cart with three wheels, unsteady and liable to collapse at the slightest bump in the road, spilling his load on whoever was near. I turned and began to follow Karin into our mother’s lodgings when I heard a noise behind me, the quiet shutting of a door.

  I turned to look back and saw a figure hurrying down the hallway in the other direction. “Philip?” I called after him.

  My fiancé, Philip Bonde, was heir to the great Bonde mining fortune, and his face was as well favored as his purse. Before my father died some months earlier, he had finalized my betrothal to Philip. I was ever so grateful; my father had never expressed love or affection for me, preferring instead Karin, the baby, who resembled him in her blonde, blue-eyed beauty.

  “Elin!” Philip stopped, turned to walk toward me, and then drew me into a quick, stiff embrace.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Rather, whatever are you doing hanging about in the gallery when we’re to see the king within the hour?”

  I was taken aback for a moment, recognizing, perhaps, that he sought to put me on the defense rather than account for his own presence.

  He grinned and gently kissed my cheeks one by one in the French fashion, his beard lightly scratching my face, the unique spiced-herb blend of his wash water surrounding him, his lips freshly warm and soft though the hall was chilled. “I shall see you downstairs, soon.”

  Then he turned and left.

  I walked, slowly, to dress myself for the evening, unsettled, unhappy, confused. When I arrived at my mother’s chamber, my married sisters, Gertrude and Brita, were already fully gowned, and the lady maid was assisting Karin as she slipped into a stunning gown of green and silver. “Where have you been?” my mother clucked. I kept trying to catch my sister’s eye, but Karin kept her chin up and studiously avoided my gaze in the looking glass.

  I knew.

  “I’m here now,” was all I answered. After Karin was gowned, the lady maid turned to me, pulled out a gown of gold-stamped gray crushed velvet, and then shook it twice before bringing it toward me. After helping me dress she weaved gold threads through my long red hair.

  I would be leaving on the morrow for England, with Princess Cecelia. So my gown had been most costly, a gift that was a dear sacrifice for my widowed mother and a token of her affection and esteem. I kissed her on the cheek, and we four girls followed her down to the great hall where Erik and his new mistress would arrive.

  • • •

  The hall was ablaze with torches and candles; flickering gold light, rolling fires, and the heat of hundreds of noble bodies warmed the cold Swedish night. I soon lost my family in the crowd of others and danced while the king’s court musicians played on. After an hour, I sought to rest and spied Karin Mansdotter in the corner, splendidly dressed and bejeweled but forlorn and alone. Although Sweden was collectively grateful for the opiate she was upon our sovereign, she was lowborn, the daughter of a tavern-keep, and had been, only months before, a lady maid to the king’s sister. Stunned by her beauty, Erik had plucked her from the rushes and made her his own.

  “May I sit near you?” I looked at the red-covered chair next to hers, which was backed against a gilded wall.

  “Oh, yes,” Karin Mansdotter said, breathless, then composed herself. “I mean, assuredly.” She smiled, and I smiled back at her.

  “Are you afraid to sail tomorrow?” she asked. “I know I would be. Those ships are so small and the sea so vast!”

  I found her forthrightness refreshing and laughed. “I am not afraid of the seas,” I said, catching Philip and my sister dancing together, again, out of the corner of my eye.

  “Do the English speak German or Swedish?” she asked.

  “No,” I answered. “But the princess has had Master Dymoke, Master Preston, and Master North teaching us the English language and customs for nigh on six years, since His Majesty decided to offer his hand to their queen.”

  She looked at her lap, and I chided myself for bringing up so indelicate a topic.

  “I hope they have lingonberries,” I said, and at that she looked up. I smiled but said nothing more, she watching the king as he made merry with the ladies of the court and I watching my sister and my fiancé entangle their hands. I wondered about the king’s mistress, born low and raised high so quickly, instantly forced to adjust to a court and a manner of life utterly different from her own, and no friend to help smooth the transition. My sister Gertrude had told us that when the king first took Karin Mansdotter as a mistress, she had been engaged to someone else. The king had asked his new paramour to send for her fiancé, and when he arrived, Erik had him killed.

  Within a few minutes, Philip came to collect me and lead me to dance. “I’ve been seeking you!” he said.

  “And now I have been found,” I said, cheered that he’d been looking for me. He took my hands in his own and, after we had danced for a while, led me into the long gallery next to the hall. The ceilings were painted with images of the king’s father, Gustav Vasa, and victory against the Danes, with whom we still fought. Torches along the gallery lit the room, but dimly, as they were few. We sat on a long bench, softly cushioned.

  “You leave on the morrow,” Philip said.

  “I don’t have to go,” I replied. “Princess Cecelia has five other maids ready to serve her on the journey and in England, and I am sure she would not miss me.” That was probably untrue, but I felt I must make any attempt to reach out to Philip before I left, given what I had seen earlier.

  Surprise crossed his face, and perhaps irritation, too, before he blotted it with a smile. “After these many years of English lessons?” he teased. “And it is a singular honor to serve the princess and perhaps make connections with the woman who might soon be our queen. England is also a seafaring country, and I know my father is interested in making himself known to mutual interests.”

  “Perhaps I can assist with that,” I offered weakly. I looked up to see my sister Karin, shimmering in the candlelight, near the doorway from the hallway to the gallery. She spoke with one of our cousins. Philip glanced up at them, transfixed, and then back at me.

  “There is no other reason for me to go . . . or stay?” I lightly probed. I recalled a Swedish proverb that said it was not safe to leave the kitchen while the fires were lit.

  “Not at all,” he replied smoothly. “And while you are gone, I will speak with my father about the . . . missing dowry portion.”

  I blinked. “What missing dowry portion?”

  “You do not know?” he asked.

  “I know nothing of this.”
>
  “Before your father took ill he had been gambling with the king and some other noblemen. I understand that he took a fair portion of your dowry money, as yet unpaid to my father, and bet it as a bid to earn a dowry for your sister Karin as well.”

  I shook my head, speechless and incensed. He had gambled my dowry? He would never have gambled Gertrude’s or Brita’s dowries. But for Karin . . . he’d lost mine.

  “Your father did not pay the last quarter of your dowry before he died. My father was negotiating with him about it, but it is, as yet, unsettled, which may void our engagement. I shall see if I can speak with him about this and settle things while you are gone.”

  I nodded, dull. I had a partial dowry. Why had no one as yet brought this matter forward?

  He took my hands in his own and kissed them. “I shall find a solution, do not worry. I already have an idea in mind.”

  “I hope so,” I said. None of us relished a winter voyage in rough seas or the overland portion upon the ice and snow, but Princess Cecelia had insisted we go. The king, I suspect, was glad to be rid of her persistent fault finding and allowed the journey to move forward in spite of the weather. “Will you miss me?”

  Philip perfunctorily kissed my hands again. “Of course!” He bowed to me before returning to the group that included my sister and my cousin. I watched them for a long while, but nothing seemed outwardly improper. Perhaps I had misunderstood the earlier situation in the closet. Or perhaps not.

  • • •

  A small crowd gathered at the ship the next morning as the wind spat ice. My trunk had already been loaded into the suffocating cabin that Bridget Hand and I would share for the sea portion of our journey. The Englishmen were already on board, eager, I supposed, to return to queen and country. With the exception of our princess, we Swedes were reluctant travelers.

  I stood near my mother, sisters, and brothers, and a few of my young cousins. One, seven-year-old Sofia, broke away and impudently ran toward the end of the dock. Only quick thinking on the part of my brother Johann saved her from an icy journey heavenward. Princess Cecelia soon approached us, and we all curtseyed.